


Six Long Years on Your Trail

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-03
Updated: 2004-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four boys, two blowjobs, twenty years and worlds apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Long Years on Your Trail

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ranalore, jedi_penguin, callmesandy, and sociofemme for making this better. Thanks also to everyone who commented on the first draft. Title and inspiration from repeated listenings of "Half a Person" by The Smiths. I blame Morrissey.

"I can't believe you actually did it," James says for the thousandth time, words only slightly slurred.

"I know," Sirius replies for the thousandth time. "Now I just have to find a place to live." The first warm flush of freedom has faded, and even with the generous amount of beer they've drunk, he is worried, wary, wondering where he is going to live, how he's going to manage without any money or any of his things.

"S'okay, Padfoot," James says. "You can stay with us for a while. Till school starts anyway. Plenty of time to get you sorted." He flings an arm around Sirius's shoulders, surreptitiously rubs his thumb along Sirius's jaw, and Sirius shivers in the summer heat.

They stumble through Muggle London towards the Leaky Cauldron, occasionally getting themselves turned around on streets they're not familiar with, and laughing out loud when people look at them askance.

His star is up, though he can't see it for the lights of the city, and he follows James, anyway, his Polaris.

"I like it best when it's just us," James murmurs pulling him into an alley a few steps away from the Leaky Cauldron.

"Mmm," is all Sirius has time to say before James's mouth is moving against his. The kiss is wet and warm and fumbling, as if neither of them's ever done it before, though Sirius has and he's seen James with other people as well.

It doesn't matter, though, because heat sparks under his skin and pools in his groin as James's tongue plunders his mouth.

He shoves forward, turning them around so James's back is against the brick wall, eyes closed behind the dirty lenses of his glasses, hands tangled in Sirius's hair. Sirius slides his mouth from James's lips to his jaw, up under his ear, then down again. He buries his face in the crook of James's neck, which smells of sweat and grass and soap.

His hands slide over James's chest and come to rest on his hips before finding and undoing his fly.

James moans and pushes on Sirius's shoulders; Sirius, his breathing ragged, sinks to his knees, knowing later he'll be disgusted at the accumulation of filth on his jeans, but too eager to get his mouth around James's cock to care.

He knows if they are caught they will be in more trouble than either of them would be able to talk his way out of, though Sirius thinks his name will still carry some weight if it comes to using magic out of school.

The ground is hard and unyielding beneath his knees, but James's skin is soft as velvet in his hands, under his tongue. His chest tightens with something that may be love. He isn't sure, but this is James, and he means everything, so Sirius wants to do this right.

"Fuck," James grunts, when Sirius's lips slide along the length of his cock. It doesn't take long -- he sucks and licks and bobs his head up and down, his own cock aching. James groans again and comes. Sirius manages to swallow most of it, and when he lets James slide free of his mouth, he scrubs at his lips and then rubs his hands on his jeans.

James is beautiful, slouching against the red brick wall in the dim yellow streetlight, his flies still undone, mouth open and panting.

Sirius kisses him hard, sucking his tongue the way he's just sucked his cock, but at the sound of nearby church bells tolling eleven, James pushes him away.

"Shit. I told Mum we'd be home by now. Come on." He hastily zips his jeans and rushes out of the alley.

Sirius stares after him for a moment, then follows more slowly, his body still humming with need.

James doesn't seem to notice. They Floo back to his house and Mrs. Potter smiles indulgently as James chatters about the new broom he's going to buy when school starts, as if ten minutes ago Sirius hadn't sucked him off in a garbage-strewn alleyway.

Sirius finds it hard to breathe, but he waves off Mrs. Potter's friendly concern.

Later that night, in bed, after he's brought himself off, imagining James's hands, James's mouth, on his body, he decides that it's all right. He loves James. James doesn't have to love him back.

***

"I still can't believe you actually did it," Ron is saying as Harry drags him down the street toward the Leaky Cauldron. "Dumbledore is going to go spare when he finds out. Not to mention Moody. And Mum." Harry isn't paying attention, but Ron keeps talking anyway. "Are you sure you know where you're going?"

He hasn't spent much time in Muggle London, and the directions Hermione gave them are vague, but Harry, as always, walks with purpose and direction, even after two pints of beer to celebrate his freedom. Ron, as always, follows, stumbling slightly.

"So you think they'll let you stay with Professor Lupin? Because I know Mum would love to have you at the Burrow." Ron knows he's babbling, because he's fairly certain Harry will be back in Grimmauld Place with Professor Lupin before the night is through. And they'll both be getting a thorough carpeting from various adults, to go with the lecture Hermione gave them earlier.

Harry doesn't answer. He swings his head from side to side as if on guard for unseen enemies. Ron supposes that's natural, given how many people want to kill him. Still, he's startled when Harry grabs him and pulls him into an alleyway.

"Wha--" His words are cut off by Harry's tongue in his mouth. He tastes beer and chips and boyflesh, sweet and hot.

His hands slide easily through Harry's always-messy hair, softer even than it looks, like silk whispering across his skin.

"Harry?" he gasps when Harry lets him up for air.

"Ron." He doesn't say any more. Ron's pretty sure he doesn't need to, and anyway, Harry has better things to do with his mouth, like press kisses to Ron's neck and jaw, making his whole body feel as if it's on fire.

He never expected this -- he's wanted Harry for a while, but Harry has never shown any sign of being interested. But Harry knows what he wants, and what he wants right now is Ron. And Ron is happy to give him whatever he needs.

Their kisses are rough and sloppy, and Harry's fingers are digging into his shoulders, long and stronger than expected, as if he were part grindylow. It's almost like roughhousing with his brothers, legs and arms entangling as they thrust against each other, except with kissing. And -- 'Oh God' -- Harry's hands stroke over Ron's erection, then slide over his hips to cup his arse.

Ron pushes back, swings them around so now Harry's back is against the cool brick wall, and Ron can lick at his collarbone, standing out in sharp relief above his t-shirt.

Harry 's hands press down on his shoulders, and he whispers, "Ron, please," his mouth red and wet and hot against Ron's skin.

Ron sinks to his knees, his mind barely able to wrap around the idea that he is making out with Harry, let alone the enormity of what Harry wants him to do.

"Harry?"

"Please?" Harry says again, hands working at his zipper while Ron closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, a little dizzy from beer and desire. He pushes Harry's hands out of the way and smiles at the way Harry sighs when his cock is free of his jeans and y-fronts.

Ron strokes it experimentally, having only ever touched himself before, and Harry groans, which sends a thrill right to Ron's cock, but he isn't thinking of himself right now. Harry needs him, wants him, and he wants Harry. He licks tentatively at the head, then takes it in his mouth and sucks gently.

Harry squirms above him, chanting, "Yes, please," over and over again before he comes.

Ron chokes and pulls away, swallowing what he can and wiping what he can't on his t-shirt. He'll worry about sneaking past Mum smelling like spunk later.

He should probably be disgusted -- he can't even imagine what Hermione would say -- but Harry is so beautiful in the soft glow of the streetlamp, eyes closed, lips swollen, chest heaving, hair even wilder than usual.

Harry strokes his hair once, awkwardly, then jerks his hand away as a nearby church bell tolls

Ron stares up at him, the words to tell Harry how he feels forming in his brain, on his lips, when Harry says, "We better go. I don't want your Mum to worry." He tucks himself in and zips his fly as if nothing has changed, though his face is red and he won't meet Ron's eyes.

Ron swallows hard, the bitter taste in his mouth transformed into the flavor of shame.

He rises slowly and tells himself it doesn't matter that Harry doesn't love him the same way. Because Harry needs him, and that's enough.

end


End file.
